Dear Anyone Who's Willing to Listen,
by LetGo666
Summary: 'Nother original fic., because it's under Law and Order...but this time it's suicide notes I write...
1. May 30th, 2013

Dear anyone who's willing to listen,

Please...I don't know, but I need you. I...want to die so badly, but...I can't,because if I do, I'll hurt everyone I love. I'm not talkign about my family, except for maybe my mom. She's been with me my whole life and had more than enough on her plater already. But, I'm talking more about my friends, the ones who see the real me. i love them. I don't ecver want to hut them. But, everyday just lving in this house, I feel a noose around my neck that tightens with every step. I need strength. And I need help. ... Please, help me to perservere.

Harley.

Do me a favor: Kill me now. Thanks.


	2. June 2nd, 2013

Dear anyone who's willing to listen,

How do you live when you're treated like shit? How do you live when the ones you're living for, your family doesn't want you to interact with? How do you express your willingness to die to those you love? They'll say they'll miss you, and they'll say they love you. They'll comfort you, and they'll tell you why you should stay. But they don't know that wehn your family insults you repeatedly, cursing your name and treating you like shit or a underserving slave, you lay at night, crying your eyes until darkness carries you into the night. They don't know that the insanity you've seen still tries to claw it's way to reality and makes you want to flee the realm...How does one thrive in such desire to die?

Harley.

Do me a favor: Kill me now. Thanks.


	3. Realization for Depression Article

This is different than my usual notes. Usually, I write letters direct to someone if they were to find me 'laying about', however this is written in an article format.

* * *

The pain that grips my heart is not created from a dagger, but instead from a fierce emotion of the sharp realization that is formed from the knowledge of growing desperation for your most longer for desires that of which can never be fulfilled. It is a harsh reality shoved into your being, drawing forth your attention to make certain that you hear every petty word. It will take you hotage, insisting that your soul will corrupt from the vile truth.

Looking now at my dainty wrists as it grips the fabric, it looks as those of a fragile man or of a waman. I could never become my dream. To have a calm heart, it would be knowing that I was maculine in at least sixty percent of my being. Though looking at the purity I was born with, it brings forth morning. How foolish I was to think that I could have my wish!

I don't strive for the approval of my peers, my parents, or passerbys. Knowing I am pleased with myself, not even harming a soul, spreads a warmth thoughout my viens. The fire is soon damoened by the displeased words of my guardians. Eventually though my spirit is relit into a single, faded flare due to miniscule compliments of random strangers.

Still, I wish for more. We, people, always wish for more. Call us greedy! Call us unthankful! Or call us determined, in another perspective.

Some of us have forbidden yearnings, such as the lusting on a neighbor when one already has a spouse. Though, there are other, minor but still inconceivable, urges. Still, society calls it unnatural and iscards the idea and every participant. I guess it's then that we consider ourselves unsatifyiable and ungrateful.

Falling in love with someone of the same sex: DISGUSTING! It's what you are thinking, correct? Though, the only, main difference that it's repulsive is that the partner shares the same pysical being. They still contain a unigue soul and personality. Their love is still just as unconditional as the bond made between heterosexual couples. Yet it is still frowned down upon. Idiotic.

Though what I dream for is a different body. I long for one that is flattened, yet pretrudes. In my current form, I feel a constant vulnerability. I feel open and unguarded. I feel that since the day I was born, what I contained will always be taken advantage of by others.

I'm different than most, and for that, I am always looked down upon. For once I want to stand from above, glance down below, and comfort all that I see. Though when I have gained a step, everything else seemes to run a mile. Eventually hope is lost, and one stops trying. I hate the hope that involuntarily bubbles up inside of my chest from little pleasures, because I know thta I will always be last, or forgottened, and my spirit will always die. Yet I continue to dream.

Tonight, everything rammed into my chest, and I wanted to lie, letting my worries fall from my eyes. Something that whispers into my ears now: My life will always have a forbooding of great misery that will far outwiegh my bliss.


End file.
